My only response is to grip his hand harder, pushing it into me as I arch my hips up, moving harder, faster until I explode with a sharp cry against his hand, spilling onto his fingers.
I’m not sure how long I flit there in that space in between orgasmic ecstasy and post-orgasmic bliss, but when I finally open my eyes again, he’s watching me. Quietly. Patiently.
I start to turn toward him, my hand sliding down his body, but he stops me, catching my hand with his, bringing it back up and trapping it between our chests.
“You didn’t sleep with that pop douchebag, did you? You couldn’t have. One night you told me you hadn’t slept with anyone in over a year.”
Wordlessly I shake my head.
“And none of the other guys that claim to have slept with you either.”
Another shake of my head.
“How many?” he asks softly.
I look away, but he uses his knuckle to nudge my chin back to him. “How many, princess?”
I lick my lips nervously. “Two.”
His eyes glitter with something fierce. “Who? When?”
“This is embarrassing,” I whisper.
He merely stares at me.
I sigh. “My high school boyfriend. Senior year. We broke up when he went to college and I pursued the music thing.”
“And the other?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I was nineteen. Maybe twenty. Went out with my friend to a club. First time, fake IDs, the whole clichéd bit, right down to too many tequila shots. Woke up in a guy’s bed, and…” I shrug. “That was number two.”
“Do you remember it?”
“There was a lot of tequila,” I admit, not feeling particularly proud of that night, but refusing to be completely ashamed of it either.
“So you’ve slept with one guy that you remember.”
I nod.
“And how was that?”
I laugh into his chest. “Oh my God, could you be nosier? I’m not asking you about how many women there’ve been.”
“Was he good?” Noah asks, his tone both curious and possessive.
“Not really,” I whisper. “It was at his parents’ house when they were at a dinner party. Neither of us really knew what we were doing. He was sweet, but it was…unremarkable.”
His fingers drift over my arm, his eyes trailing the motion. “No wonder you’re so fucking tight.”
“From curious to crude in two seconds straight,” I say. “Impressive.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he says softly, looking as tender as I’ve ever seen him. “I meant that you feel good. Right. Mine.”
&n
bsp; He looks as stunned by the last word as I feel, and he glances away before I can read any more into it.
“I don’t care if you’ve slept with a hundred men,” he says gruffly. “You know that, right?”